Pink, white, red, striped--she fingered and smelt
them one after the other, so as not to get to her disappointment too
quickly. As long as she hadn't seen for herself, seen the table in the
hall quite empty except for its bowl of flowers, she still could hope,
she still could have the joy of imagining the telegram lying on it
waiting for her. But there is no smell in a camellia, as Mr. Wilkins,
who was standing in the doorway on the look-out for her and knew what
was necessary in horticulture, reminded her.
She started at his voice and looked up.
"A telegram has come for you," said Mr. Wilkins.
She stared at him, her mouth open.
"I searched for you everywhere, but failed--"
Of course. She knew it. She had been sure of it all the time.
Bright and burning, Youth in that instant flashed down again on Rose.
She flew up the steps, red as the camellia she had just been fingering,
and was in the hall and tearing open the telegram before Mr. Wilkins
had finished his sentence. Why, but if things could happen like this--
why, but there was no end to--why, she and Frederick--they were going
to be--again--at last--
"No bad news, I trust?" said Mr. Wilkins who had followed her,
for when she had read the telegram she stood staring at it and her face
went slowly white.
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